It was a momentary lull in this never ending journey of campsites, parties, changing scenery, sights, people, adventures, and strange circumstances. I slipped into a time of good friends, tranquility, and easy living. And so, to my delight, did the wintertime adventures of Eden (at the southern tip of Florida) and the bond that had formed between Steve, Tom, and myself continued…
None who lived within the two houses at Eden had jobs at this time and mornings were spent at the coffee pot and breakfast table. Sometimes we chattered on into the afternoon. But a home and property do require chores, and it was Tom who helped Steve empty the green swimming pool I’d deemed “mosquito swamp.”
One sunny day Steve suggested we take a ride into the local wildlife reserve. All agreed it might be fun. Since Steve owns no motorcycle it was decided he’d ride bitch on my FLT’s large back seat.
Few were on the highway as we rode off into the late morning. Both motorcycles soon entered the park to glide along the flat highway that passed vast forests of trees, mangrove, and swamplands. No words could bring justice to the elation that accompanied this warm day’s ride through such a mystic place while in the company of close friends. From my back seat Steve sometimes sung loudly and, although I tried to ignore his happy bellowing, at times it was necessary to crank the radio and drown the bastard out.
There were rest areas with long wooden walkways leading out into the swamps and we stopped for smoke breaks and walking tours through this mangrove jungle. It seemed we were the only humans present.
At road’s end a tourist spot with large parking lot, buildings, and other visitors, came into view. After parking, we visited the various accommodations. One place offered kayak rentals, and a small cafe sold me an overpriced sandwich. After lunch we set to exploring the area and soon came upon a uncommon creature. Although Florida is full of alligators, there in the water lay a HUGE salt water crocodile. Very rare. They are said to occasionally come up from the far south and this was the first I’d ever seen.
Next we came upon an osprey nest. The osprey (sometimes called the sea eagle) are very large birds who tend to place their gigantic nests at the towering tops of power-poles or their equivalent. I’d seen them many times, yet only from a distance. But this nest was positioned so low a person could almost touch it. From the ground, it was actually easy to see baby chicks as they peered over the edge. These birds are protected in Florida and if one nests in your tree you can be fined heavily for cutting it down.
It was late afternoon as we began the journey out of the park—which was every bit as calming as the ride in.
The days at Eden carried on in a tranquil blur of time’s passing, for these were some of life’s finest congenial moments.
For an occasional break in the monotony, Tom and I would ride the 40ish miles up to Cafe 27 and enjoy the weekend bike scene there. By evening we’d make camp in a perfect spot nearby, then ride home next morning.
One day, while drinking Cuban coffee in downtown Homestead, I befriended a black man. In conversation it came up that the economy crunch terminated his job and, with no money to replace his Softail’s bald rear tire. Jim had simply parked the bike in his apartment living room, where it sat idle for months. Although he still didn’t have shit for money, he needed some wind and was gonna buy that tire anyway. With no cash to pay shop fees Jim borrowed a small lift with which to pull the rear wheel and also put the battery on a charger. It became quickly apparent to me this guy had no real mechanical ability—just determination. If there’s anyone who understands the need for inexpensive wind it’s me, so I offered to come over and help. Jim agreed, but insisted he’d pay.
A day and time was set.
When that day came, Jim met Tom and I in the parking lot of his run down apartment complex and soon led us inside. The Softail sat just as he’d said. Myself being the most experienced mechanic present, I tore into the job. Once the rear wheel was removed I installed the new brake pads Jim sacrificed more of his slender funds for. As is common when three boys hang together, there’s a bounty of bullshitting that must be attended to and this activity ate up considerable time. Eventually however, the Softail wheel was thrown into Jim’s old SUV and off to the shop we went. While waiting for the mechanic to swap out Jim’s rubber, he took us to a local lunch spot.
Later, back at the apartment, it took considerable effort to bring the Softail back to life, but in the end I was riding it around the parking lot. The bike ran beautifully.
As Tom and I moved to leave, Jim asked how much he owed. I said, “Nothing.” This didn’t seem to sit right with the guy and he offered $60. Again I declined.
As Tom and I walked away Jim shouted, “I’ll split it with you Scotty. How’s $30?”
I yelled back, “Hey Jim, you ever help someone out for no good reason at all?”
“Yea.”
“And how’d that make you feel?”
“Really good.”
“Well fuck you for trying to screw me outta that then!” We left.
Jim’s called many times since and we remain friends to this day.
As is the way of the drifter, each reality entered is only temporary and our days at Eden were nearing an end. Tom and I would attend the Daytona rally some 300 miles north and as the time grew near we tended to our bikes and equipment. However, from the first day at Eden I’d been hearing lunatic screaming from next door and Steve had promised to show me the cause of this commotion before I left.
Winter sunshine beamed as usual on the day our little trio set out to pass the five acres of Eden then onto the property next door. At its entrance I stopped to gaze at the extravagant house nestled so comfortably into its background of extreme green. No expense had been spared. As we passed it, a well marked trail led steadily into a tropical forest so thick that I doubted if even the Amazon could rival it—except this place was obviously very well manicured. The trail quickly became only a marker through what felt like the terrarium landscape of some otherworldly fairy tale dimension. A fantasy planet in a bottle. The sounds of birds came from everywhere.
We soon ran across a large cage. I gazed inside to see little black and white bodies with yellow wide eyed stares that seemed reminiscent of a porcelain doll. Monkeys! What were they doing here? For now, they all kept a distance and seemed uninterested in the people who stood just beyond the wire. But Steve had the forethought to bring both banana and avocado and, as he held these treats up, the monkeys’ interest perked. Although, Tom and I were a little dumbstruck at this strange apparition, we took turns handing munchies to the outstretched arms of monkeys.
Eventually we moved on and before long another cage came into view. More monkeys; but these were dark brown and looked more like mini King Kongs. Many cages were placed on the trail and along with lots more monkeys, we began stumbling upon other exotic animals as well. A cage of parrots, one filled with bats. A huge turtle who’s shell had to be at least 4 feet long. Then we encountered a common horse, and many other strange creatures, of which I’ve no idea what they were called. Eventually we came to a pond full of flamingos and ducks. Then another that offered a lush swimming hole for geese.
What was this place? In reality, these were simply Steve’s strangely eccentric, filthy rich, neighbors, whom we never saw.
In time a little round gazebo came into view. It offered a thatched roof, hammock, table, chairs, couch, electric lighting, and what looked like a family of people hanging inside. One man had a heavy camera around his neck and there was a pretty girl sprawled on the couch. Some kind of a photo shoot? It seemed our interruption was not really welcome, so I only grabbed a few inconspicuous photos as we passed.
Rest areas, some with little decks, table, chairs, and maybe an umbrella, were situated along the way and we took time to lounge, smoke, and talk excitedly, although Steve’s tone was more restrained since he’d been here many times.
It was late afternoon when we finally moseyed back to Eden.
The time to leave this place had come, for the Daytona rally would begin shortly and it was there I was scheduled to work on motorcycles for one of the vendors, who permeate the rally. In fact, for our drug out enjoyment of Eden, Tom and I had overstayed and now it would be a push to make the start of Daytona.
The following morning Tom and I packed and readied the bikes. Today was an emotional departure, for Steve didn’t want us to go. But such is the fate of the drifter; for at times he will encounter very close friendships only to inevitably face the day he must leave them—hopefully to return again.
It was another sunny day as we left the driveway to begin a slow migration into the cooler northern lands of this coming summer’s travels.
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